Tuesday, November 07, 2006


Sitting out the back, staring at a possum, it's returning the stare.

I think it wants my wine, well the memory of it, the fruit it was, the bunches once sweet. Its gaze flicks from mine to the glass and back again. The tree droops with the possum's weight, not the least of which is that stare, geckos are making that deliquescent exclamation, that frustrated cartoon cry into the night.

There's always traffic, rumbling in the background, slipping from Coro Drive, seeking the Western Freeway. But it's just me, and that possum, and the geckos. Even old moon has opted out.

And I'm thinking about old men, and words, and failure.

Failure is the most interesting thing. It makes stories work, it's a kind of oil, and abyss – the sort that demands leapers. I sometimes wonder if failure not conflict is the true engine of tales.

I'm constantly disappointed and amazed, by the choices I've made, by the way the world works or doesn't, by the words I've chosen and the ones I didn't.

I choose to get up, and out of the dark. I choose to write this down.

The possum. I don't know where it goes, maybe to debate the possum scene. The traffic continues, it's going everywhere, and running down, softly into the night. The geckos continue. I can hear their frustration, and their hopes.

And I'm still thinking about old men, and words, and failure.

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